Mostly Lost (Partially Found)
by Celtic Knot
Summary: The TARDIS has crash-landed in Night Vale, but will it ever leave again? The Doctor and Rose must race against time—for whatever that's worth in a place like this—to figure out what is slowly killing it. Meanwhile, Cecil is absolutely beside himself, as Carlos has suddenly gone missing.
1. Who

**Mostly Lost (Partially Found)**

 _Chapter 1: Who_

Sirens blared. The TARDIS jerked and shuddered, the lights flickering alarmingly. Rose Tyler strained to hold the lever down as The Doctor had instructed. "Doctor, it's fighting me!" she wailed over the noise as it threatened to slip from her sweaty grasp. "I can't hold on!"

"Yes, you can, Rose!" he shouted back, clinging to the central console to stay upright even as he slapped at the controls. "You have to!" One of coral-like support columns behind him crumbled, and he ducked to avoid being hit. Sparks flew. "If you let go of that lever, there's no telling where we'll—"

But it was no use. A violent jolt sent Rose tumbling to the floor, her head slamming into the deck plating, stars bursting behind her eyes. The lever sprang upward, and with a resounding crash and a squeal of distressed metal, the TARDIS ground to a halt.

The lights no longer flickered, but now turned red. The alarms went silent, giving way to a low hiss and the deep toll of a large bell that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It was not loud, but its insistence, its urgency, gave it a demanding presence mere volume could never achieve. It made her blood run cold. This disquieting quiet was somehow even more terrifying than the chaos of moments before.

The Doctor, too, had been knocked off his feet by the impact, but he sprang back up immediately, tapping buttons and flipping switches back and forth, trying to coax some kind of response out of the ship. But as Rose, dizzy and a little nauseated, slowly pulled herself into a sitting position, she couldn't tell if it was doing anything or not. "Sorry," she mumbled lamely. "Where are we, anyway?"

"I don't know," The Doctor replied tersely, never taking his eyes off the readouts on the screen in front of him.

The tone of his voice sent a chill shivering up Rose's spine. In a hesitant near-whisper, she asked, _"When_ are we?"

The Doctor took a step back from the console and raked his hands through his hair. He sucked a hissing breath through his teeth, turned wide, almost panicked eyes to Rose, and repeated, _"I don't know."_

That admission sent adrenaline coursing through her veins, and Rose pushed herself to her feet. "What do you mean, you don't know?" she demanded. "How can you not know?"

"I mean all the instruments are scrambled." The Doctor flicked a few more switches, uselessly, then threw his hands up in frustration. "I can't get a fix on our location in space or time. We're losing power, and if I can't stop the bleeding, the TARDIS will die. And then, wherever we are, whenever we are, we'll be trapped here. Forever."

Rose swallowed hard. "What can we do?" she asked timidly.

"Whatever's draining power, it's out there." The Doctor gestured toward the doors, his expression grim as he snatched up his long brown coat and shrugged it on. "We need to find it, and stop it. Quickly."

Despite the circumstances, Rose couldn't help but smile. Traveling with The Doctor, there was always adventure, always danger. No matter where they went, no matter when, the universe always had new challenges. There was always a problem to solve, a crisis to survive, a catastrophe to prevent—and never, ever, was there boredom. She wouldn't have it any other way. "Well, then, what are we waiting for?"

The Doctor stared at her for a moment, then he smiled, too. "That's the spirit. _Allons-y!"_

* * *

 _And now, traffic._

 _John Peters—you know, the farmer?—has reported a motor vehicle accident in one of his imaginary cornfields. Or at least, that's how he describes the sound it made when a large, blue, wooden box, with windows and a light on the top, suddenly appeared out of thin air. At first, he assumed this was due to the recent shattering and shuffling of realities we've experienced, and he just waited for the box to go away, as manifestations of alternate timelines usually do._

 _But it didn't go away. It stayed there, solid and real. It hissed like a frightened snake, or like Station Management does whenever they make eye contact with Khoshekh. John also reports hearing… a bell. A single, huge bell, ringing out slowly and mournfully, as if at a funeral, or a birthday party._

 _And then, listeners—and then the box opened. A dim, red light poured out like blood upon the earth, and two strange figures emerged, just as solid and real and present as the box. John describes them. One is a tall man, thin, with brown hair. He's wearing glasses, a blue pinstriped suit, and a long brown overcoat. His eyes are older, far older, than his face. And the other is a young woman, a girl really, short, blonde, in jeans and a purple T-shirt. She has been places, and seen things._

 _John greeted them in the friendly Night Vale tradition: by pointing at them and shouting, "Interlopers!" They looked taken aback, as interlopers often do until they get used to the intricacies of our culture. But they soon proved to be nice enough, and took our weird little town's weirdnesses more or less in stride._

 _Who are they? Where did they come from? How do two so seemingly normal people just appear in the middle of an imaginary cornfield with no apparent mode of transportation? Surely they couldn't have walked across the harsh, unforgiving desert. Even in an environment so conducive to long, unprotected and unprovisioned hikes, Night Vale is notoriously difficult to find. And yet, when John looked back out over his field, he could see… nothing. More on this as it develops._

 _This has been: traffic._

* * *

Rose glanced back over her shoulder as they left the farm behind, only able to hope they were going the right way. All the strange creatures and deadly disasters she'd encountered since running away with The Doctor, and it was this John Peters, who'd seemed at first so totally normal, that gave her the creeps. "He's mad," she muttered when they were out of earshot. "Absolutely bonkers!"

"It's not just him," The Doctor agreed. "This place, this whole town… there's something wrong with it. Something terribly wrong."

Despite the oppressive desert heat, Rose shivered. "Is the TARDIS going to be okay? Just standing out there in that field? I mean, it's never been a problem before, but… I'm worried. It sort of sticks out here. More so than usual."

"Perception filter. Everyone can see it, but no one will notice it's there." He waggled his eyebrows, a mock-serious expression on his face. "Hidden in the imaginary corn."

Rose couldn't help but giggle. "Maybe we should make some imaginary crop circles so we can find it again." Her smile faded. "D'you think this Cecil person will be any help?"

"Much as I hate to keep saying this… I don't know." The Doctor shrugged, squinting up at the sun as if he'd noticed something wrong with it, too. "But I think someone called 'the Voice of Night Vale' might be a good place to start."

"What does that even mean, 'the Voice of Night Vale'?" Rose demanded.

"Hard to say. Could be anything, really. Some sort of government spokesperson? Official town greeter? Who knows?" He grinned brightly. "Maybe there's a visitors' center. One with a little shop."

Rose laughed, shaking her head. "You and your little shops, Doctor!"

"If you want to know what's going on in a place, Rose, always go to a little shop," he replied. "If anyone knows what's going on, it's the shopkeepers. People talk to them. They always know all the good gossip," he added with a wink.

"Well, whoever this Cecil is, we've got to find him, first," said Rose. "It'd be nice to have better directions than 'follow the blinking red light.'"

"I think that's all we need." The Doctor stopped and pointed up toward the building they'd arrived at: a red light flashed at the top of the transmission tower on the roof, and the large block letters above the dark green stone doors read _NIGHT VALE COMMUNITY RADIO._ "Rose Tyler, I give you: the Voice of Night Vale."

* * *

 _Thank you, Deb. It's always… good to have you on the show._

 _While we heard that message from our sponsors, Carlos texted me. He said he's learned something interesting about our visitors, and he wants to share it with all of you! Aw, I love it when he makes a discovery! He gets so excited, and he can't stop talking, and his voice goes up and his eyes get bright and he's just so—_

 _Ahem. Let's give him a call, shall we?_

… _Huh. Straight to voicemail. That's weird._

 _Maybe he's still at the lab. He always forgets to charge his phone while he's working. I'll try the land line._

 _Okay, it's ringing… ringing… oh, hi, Nilanjana! How are you? Good, glad to hear it. Hey, is Carlos there?_

 _He went home?_

 _When?_

 _I did? Oh… uh, right. I did. Just… checking to see if… you were paying attention. Thanks, Nilanjana. Bye!_

 _Well, it seems like we've missed him. Um… no big deal, right? We'll have him on the show tomorrow. And I'll see him tonight, as soon as I get off work. Everything will be fine. Everything. Is. Fine._

 _(Carlos—call me. Please.)_

 _Uh, breaking news, listeners. Our visitors from beyond the desert are right here in the studio! I sent Intern Marcie to let them in and show them how to make proper obeisance to Station Management, and now they're just outside the control room, smiling and waving. They do seem a little shell-shocked, though. They must really be enjoying their stay here in Night Vale. Hello, mysterious interlopers!_

 _I have to wonder what they're doing here. Who are they? What do they want from us? We get so few outsiders in Night Vale. They look so unassuming… frankly, listeners, it's making me a little nervous._

 _I'm sure it's nothing to panic about. I mean, it's not like they're a tiny army bent on our destruction. Or motionless, expressionless strangers. Or librarians—that would be really scary, am I right? They just look like… people. Lost, maybe a little frightened, which is totally understandable. So if you see them around town, make sure to give them a warm Night Vale welcome!_

 _It looks like they want to talk to someone. Me? Oh, I… okay, s-sure._

 _While I do that, let's have a look at the weather._


	2. Where

_Chapter 2: Where_

As the weather report began playing—a sprightly tune that might have been catchy but for its odd, uneven meter—Cecil muted his microphone and slowly slipped off his headphones, letting them dangle around his neck. He bit his lip as he regarded the two outsiders waiting on the other side of the glass. Outsiders so rarely came to Night Vale, and when they did, it often heralded strange and terrible things. Stranger and more terrible than usual, anyway.

Often, but not always. His own husband had been an outsider, once. And Carlos's arrival in Night Vale had been the best thing to happen to Cecil in… well, ever.

Still, he worried that this intrusion was, intentionally on the interlopers' part or not, far less benign. Though he'd tried to maintain a professional calm while on the air, his phone call with Nilanjana had left him badly shaken. He had no memory whatsoever of picking Carlos up from the lab and taking him home, as she'd informed him he'd done not two hours ago. He couldn't have. He'd been in the studio all day, broadcasting.

Hadn't he?

Time had always been a little strange in Night Vale, but this… this was downright unsettling. Even more so since he couldn't get in touch with Carlos. And that it coincided with the arrival of these strangers—no, this did not sit well with Cecil at all. His heart pounded in time with the music, its odd, uneven meter tightening his chest and leaving him short of breath.

But he was a reporter. It was his job to report on the goings-on of Night Vale, so by God, he was going to report. Finding out what these interlopers wanted was all up to him. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the recording booth.

"'Ello there!" said the tall, thin man cheerfully. His accent implied he was from far away indeed. England, maybe? He waved at Cecil again. "I'm The Doctor, and this is Rose."

The short, blonde girl waved, too, though her smile was far less enthusiastic. "'Ello." English as well.

"And you must be Cecil, 'the Voice of Night Vale.' A pleasure to meet you," said The Doctor. "John Peters—you know, the farmer—told us you were the man to talk to about… whatever is going on around here."

Cecil could only laugh incredulously. "I guess that depends on what 'whatever' you're talking about." He wasn't sure what to do with his hands. Folding his arms would look defensive. Hands on hips would be confrontational. Letting them dangle felt awkward. For lack of any better ideas, he put them in his pockets and tried to look casual. "Lots of weird things go on around here."

"No kidding," Rose shot back, with that particular brand of anger that's born of confusion and fear. "Helicopters everywhere, imaginary corn, doors you have to bleed on to open? And what the _hell_ is that thing in Station Management's office?!"

"Shh!" Cecil shushed her frantically. "They can hear you!" A muted roar from down the hall and a slight tremor in the building confirmed Station Management's displeasure at the girl's comments. Cecil turned toward the nearest hidden mic. "Please forgive her; she's not from here!" he pleaded. To Rose, he said apologetically, "Station Management can be a little… sensitive."

The roaring and trembling subsided slowly, reluctantly. Warily.

But that only seemed to panic Rose more. "What, they just… listen in on everyone's private conversations?" she demanded. "Who runs this place? Big Brother?"

The Doctor placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke to her more sternly than the look on his face suggested he truly meant. "That's enough, Rose." He gave her a tight smile. "When in Rome, and all that, eh?" He turned back to Cecil, questions burning in his eyes. "Though I have to say, I _am_ getting quite the 'H. P. Lovecraft meets _1984'_ feeling from this town. The tentacles back there were a very nice touch."

A chill shivered up Cecil's spine. The offhand mention of Lovecraft—that subversive journalist whose works had hit a little too close to home for the comfort of the Sheriff's Secret Police, leading to his permanent banishment from Night Vale in 1937, and whose name it was forbidden to speak aloud—was bad enough. But the mention of the year 1984 made him think of Simone Rigadeau, the transient who lived in the Earth Sciences building at Night Vale Community College, and her insistence that the world had ended in 1983. Did this nameless Doctor know something about that? Was he somehow connected to one of those alternate realities where the world _had_ ended in 1983?

But The Doctor was still talking. "Anyway, where are we? John Peters wouldn't give me a straight answer. I mean, clearly we're on Earth, in America somewhere—I'd say the Southwest, maybe Nevada or New Mexico? And as for when, going by the mobile on your desk in there, I'm guessing early twenty-first century, probably late 2010s. Am I right?"

"It-it's 2018," Cecil stammered. The implications of The Doctor's questions left him too breathless to respond further. Could these interlopers be time travelers? Though unusual, that wasn't unheard of in Night Vale. But that he felt the need to mention that they were on Earth… who were these people?

"But you see, that's a problem," declared The Doctor, beginning to pace—and deliberately, Cecil noticed through his somewhat stunned haze, keeping himself between Cecil and Rose. "To my knowledge—and mind you, that is vast and extensive—there is not, nor has there ever been, a town called Night Vale in Nevada, New Mexico, or anywhere in the United States. Not in this time period or any other. And the kind of… of police state you have here would never stand in this country, not even in the tiniest, most insular settlements. Not now. Not ever." He stopped his pacing and fixed Cecil with a glare that rooted him to the spot. "So I'll ask you again, Cecil Palmer: _where are we?"_

Cecil raked a hand through his hair, uncertain how to respond. He'd never heard of… Nedara? Nevodra? Whatever. This was Night Vale. That's all anyone had ever needed to know. And what did The Doctor mean about time periods?

As he stood there floundering for words, there came a tapping on the glass behind him. Intern Marcie was in the production booth, and as soon as she had his attention, she pointed to her wrist, as if at an imaginary watch. He bit back a relieved sigh. _Off the hook._ The Doctor was weirding him out something awful, and all he really wanted to do was go home and check on Carlos. "Look, I have to go finish my broadcast," he said, "and then I have… uh, things I need to… take care of. Marcie can show you around town; there's really not much I can tell you that she can't."

With that, he practically fled back into the recording booth, back to the safety—or at least, the comforting familiarity—of his work.

* * *

The Doctor watched Cecil thoughtfully through the glass. He was clearly distracted, shuffling papers, fidgeting with his glasses, and studiously avoiding looking at The Doctor and Rose. His hands trembled slightly, and he kept shifting in his seat, as though anxious to leave.

But there was something else about him. Something… off. Something that didn't quite seem to fit, even in a place as supremely _weird_ as Night Vale. Something The Doctor couldn't quite put his finger on. As nonchalantly as he could, he pulled out his sonic screwdriver and took a reading.

"That's odd," he muttered, frowning. Whatever had damaged the TARDIS must be messing with the sonic. _These readings… shouldn't be possible._

"What is it, Doctor?" asked Rose.

The Doctor glanced at her, startled, then slipped the sonic back into his coat. No need to worry her yet. "It's nothing," he replied with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. And before she could press him further, he turned his attention to the approaching intern.

"Hey. Sorry about Cecil," Marcie said, smiling apologetically. "He's just freaked 'cause his husband isn't answering his phone. He's a worrier, our Cecil."

The Doctor blinked in bewilderment. "And that's what he's worried about," he replied. "Not the constant surveillance, not the inhuman creatures he's working for, but a missed _phone call?"_

Marcie only shrugged. "Look, Doctor, I've lived in Night Vale all my life. I know our town is weird compared to the rest of the world, but I've never known anything else. And to me, that missed phone call is the weirdest thing that's happened all day."

* * *

As Marcie led them through the studio's dark, labyrinthine hallways back toward its dark, monolithic doors, Rose glanced back over her shoulder again and again. She couldn't shake the sensation of being followed, and kept half expecting to see the shadows of tentacles slithering up the walls, or feel them tugging at her clothes. The only thing more unsettling than the feeling you were being watched, she thought, was the certain _knowledge_ you were being watched.

No, that wasn't quite right. There was something even more unsettling than that: one Cecil Palmer. John Peters had implied he'd been hosting Night Vale Community Radio for decades, but aside from a shock of white in his black hair, he didn't look much older than Rose. His voice didn't match his face. And his eyes… she'd never seen any human with eyes like those: a purple so vibrant they almost glowed. He seemed nice enough, but still, he gave her the shivers.

Then again, so did most everything in this town. Emerging from the air-conditioned dimness into the bright desert heat, through thick stone doors, no less, made Rose think of vampires rising from the grave. Everything that had happened within seemed suddenly dreamlike, eerie and unreal. The sensation was so sudden and distinct that she could almost believe the radio station was a sepulcher, and Cecil the wraith that haunted it.

And to be honest, Marcie wasn't much better. Casually bleeding on the doors—which seemed to somehow absorb the blood, causing red veins in the stone to momentarily glow—as if it was a normal, everyday thing to do. Waving cheerfully to the black van across the street—and explaining when The Doctor asked that it was a surveillance team from a "vague, yet menacing, government agency" (her exact words) and that they should all speak clearly so they could be easily heard. Entirely avoiding The Doctor's questions about the nature and history of Night Vale—out of ignorance or reticence, it was hard to tell.

Everyone in this town, Rose concluded, was insane. And if she had to stay here much longer, she'd go mad, too.

Finally, even The Doctor's patience gave out. "Marcie, thank you, you've been… very helpful," he said, "but I need to talk to someone a little more, well, knowledgeable. Someone who knows what, exactly, is going on around here."

Marcie folded her arms and scoffed. "No one _knows,_ exactly. But you might try the scientists from the University of What It Is. They've been working with Carlos—that's Cecil's husband, by the way—to study Night Vale for the past few years. I don't think they've found anything conclusive, though." She shrugged. "At the very least, we might be able to find out what Carlos is up to at the moment. Get Cecil to stop bouncing off the walls."

"Oh, I'm sure he's just wrapped up in his work," said Rose. "I know how easy it is for _some_ people"—she gave a sideways glance at The Doctor—"to lose all track of everything… and everyone."

"I know," Marcie agreed with a laugh, "Carlos is _terrible_ about that. It drives Cecil crazy." She gestured for The Doctor and Rose to follow her. "The lab is on the other side of town, on the edge of the Science District. Come on, I'll drive."

* * *

It was dark. Carlos was fairly certain it was midday, but he could see nothing. He couldn't remember the past… how long? Well, it had been just after lunch that Cecil had unexpectedly showed up at the lab, and Carlos couldn't remember anything that had happened since then. Maybe it had been longer than he thought. Maybe it _was_ nighttime.

No, wait. His eyes were closed. He opened them and looked around.

It didn't help much, except to confirm his initial assumption that it was still daylight outside. But he still had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten here. Or why his head hurt.

He was lying on a couch, in an apartment. But it wasn't his couch, nor his apartment. There were none of his belongings neatly organized on shelves, and none of Cecil's scattered haphazardly about. _Somebody's_ stuff was here, but not much of it. Not enough to suggest anyone actually lived here. Not for very long, anyway.

He sat up slowly, groaning as the room spun around him. The sunlight streaming in through the windows hurt his eyes, and he squeezed them shut again, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths.

"Oh, good, you're awake."

Carlos's head snapped up at the familiar voice, and as the last of the dizziness subsided, a familiar face came into focus.

"C-Cecil?"


End file.
